


Lose Your Blues (Times Are Holding Me Down)

by starsandgutters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Team Free Will, bunker!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2337941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a short bunker!fluff scene that popped into my head on the way to the library and wouldn't let go. I entirely blame the <i>Footloose</i> theme song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lose Your Blues (Times Are Holding Me Down)

It takes Cas a long time to come to grips with the fallout of his stolen grace exploding.

 

*

 

For as well as he’d taken to humanity the first – well, second – time around, this was different. Apparently, the aftereffect of the surrogate grace leaving Castiel’s body in a rush was similar to being beaten up all over with a white-hot metal-studded baseball bat—and just about as fun.

Sam and Dean had done their best to provide comfort, despite still having to deal with the aftermath of the freaking Battle Royale between angel factions, including straggler angels who’d been left behind after Heaven closed for business. Winchester comfort came in the shape of the quietest, nicest room in the bunker and homemade meals (Dean groused about having to slave away in the kitchen for them both, but Sam saw him looking at recipes on whatthefuckshouldimakefordinner.com when he thought nobody was onto him).

It seemed to help, but only to a minimal degree. Cas had remained locked inside his room, only ever getting up to eat the food Dean provided, or to reacquaint himself with said food at unfortunately frequent times (apparently the baseball bat of exploding grace also had a good go at your guts).

On day 3, Dean had declared the situation ridiculous and had gone to tell Cas to man up and at least change out of his pajama bottoms and wear real clothes. The only reaction  _that_  had elicited was a very well-aimed, viciously strong toss of a pillow at Dean’s head, followed by a yell of “I thought you were feeling  _weak_!”.

On day 5, Sam had collected all the oldest texts they’d found in the Men of Letters’ library and brought them into Castiel’s room to ask for help, in the hopes of awakening his interest, but Castiel had groaned and asked for more painkillers. (“Absolutely  _not_ ”, Dean had declared, refusing to explain to Sam why he looked so freaked out at the prospect.) 

On Day 6 Dean had quietly knocked, let himself inside the room and apologized for being a dick. This had had marginally more success than all previous attempts, in that Cas poked his head out of the covers, smiled a little and accepted the apology in a pained, rough voice. (“This is so humiliating,” he’d growled. “From heavenly warrior to sub-par human. I can’t even come out on hunts.” Dean had awkwardly patted his knee and reassured him that as far as he and Sam were concerned, Castiel was very…par.  _Over_ par, even. Cas had laughed, then groaned, and re-buried himself in bed without so much as a goodbye.)

On day 8 Sam had cornered Dean in the kitchen. “You do know this is about more than just the physical damage, right?”

“Not following, Sammy.”

Cue Sam’s best ‘why must you be an insensitive peasant’ bitchface. “Dean. He’s  _human_.”

“Uh, yeah. He’s been human before. Seemed to like it.”

“Yeah, I know that. But Dean, now it’s for  _real_  real. There’s no going back. He’s not allowed into Heaven anymore. No mojo, no wings, no… eternal life or whatever. No magical healing powers. No zapping. Nothing.  _Ever_  again.”

Dean sucked in a breath. Well, it sounded a hell of a lot harsher when put that way. In Dean’s book, ‘no longer associated with those winged dicks’ was a good thing. But, yeah, okay. He could see how it would suck a little for Cas. Or a lot.

They had silently agreed to leave Castiel alone until he felt up to facing the outside world again. Sam had turned back to studying some of the Aramaic texts he had not brought to Cas, while Dean cooked more burritos, and worried, and worried some more.  

 

*

 

On day 10, Cas does the washing up for all of their plates instead of just his own, despite the boys’ protests.

On day 11, a load of dirty clothes appears in the washing machine when Sam brings in his own laundry. He does both loads, and when he returns Castiel’s clothes, Cas is actually wearing jeans (though he’s still clad in Dean’s oldest, rattiest AC/DC t-shirt) and thanks him with at least 30% less grouchiness than he’d displayed in a while.

The brothers don’t discuss it. It’s silly, but they’re afraid of jinxing it.

And then, on the morning of day 15, they arrive in the kitchen only to stop cold in the doorway, elbowing and hushing each other.

Cas is making breakfast, actually  _making_  breakfast, an egg broken on the counter and the smell of slightly burnt bacon lingering in the air. He’s singing along to  _Footloose_  on the radio, even moving in time to the beat, no angelic grace in his step; his voice is gravel-rough and completely out of tune, like a true Winchester.

Dean turns to face Sam, who has a matching grin on his face, and his relief is a palpable thing. “Yeah. He’s gonna be okay.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Everybody go and groove! [[please, Louise, pull me off of my knees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XrqrpMFxMo8)]


End file.
